Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (2 page)

The day wasn’t old enough to be hot
. Driving with the windows down provided more than enough comfort despite the slow speed required to navigate the narrow lane. The driveway wasn’t really anything more than a gap in the fence with a mailbox, the grass thinned from the passing of the occasional tire. More from habit than need, Dusty pulled the pickup under the drooping branches of an ancient cypress, the wisps of foliage brushing harmlessly over the windshield as he rolled under the umbrella of shade.

After exiting the truck,
he parted the low hanging growth and approached a broad, shady porch. A slightly arthritic, red tick hound dog guarded the area, barely raising its head to acknowledge the newcomer.

“Hello, Roscoe,”
Dusty greeted. The only response was a single thump of the animal’s tail on the wooden floor. Taking a knee and scratching behind one of hound’s droopy ears, Dusty softly instructed, “Now, Roscoe, don’t get all excited.”

The sarcasm was clearly lost on Roscoe, who managed two half-hearted wags of his tail in response. Switching ears,
Dusty took a moment to scan the homestead.

The old Barlow place was just over 200 acres, and in Dusty’s opinion, some of the best land in the Fort Davis area.
A modest, single-story home dominated the grassy floor of a valley, the flatland bordered on three sides by steep, black faced walls of volcanic rock. A large barn and smaller outbuilding stood toward the back of the cut, their rough, aged gray façades evidence that the property was once a working ranch.

Blooming beds of seasonal fauna now surrounded the home, a sure sign of a
woman’s touch. Hanging baskets, dripping with ivy, framed the porch, a small fountain of tumbling water adding to the relaxed atmosphere of the retreat. Dusty smiled, approving of both the color and the obvious pride of ownership indicative of the landscaping. This land hadn’t always benefited from such considerations. 

Old man Barlow wouldn’t have bothered w
ith such trivial pursuits. He had earned a reputation as a man more concerned with counting his money than wasteful investments in frivolous gardening or home décor. He’d passed away some five years ago, wealthy and alone. Dusty would have never used the word “happy” in describing the old gruff, terms like sourpuss or codger more in tune with the value of his life.

The sound of the
nearby screen door interrupted his sequence of memories, as well as the manipulation of Roscoe’s ear.

“I thought I heard someone out here. What brings you over this way, Mr. Durham Weathers?”

Dusty removed his hat and shyly looked down. “I’m sorry to drop by unannounced, Miss Grace, but I’m going to be taking a trip tomorrow and wanted to check on my Last Will and Testament.”

Grace’s tone
became gentler. “Durham, you know you’re always welcome here, announced or not. Come on in.”

The lady of the house held the door open for Dusty to pass, th
e narrow entrance bringing their bodies physically close. She smelled of vanilla and softness, the shine of her blond hair drawing his eye. If she noticed he hesitated too long in the doorway, she didn’t let it show.

Dusty entered the living room and
paused. He began to justify his visit. “I’m taking the plane to College Station early tomorrow. I’ve not seen Mitch or his family in quite a while. That’s a long flight for me, and, well, I reasoned it best to have my affairs in order before I left. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be bothering you.”

Grace, placing her hand
on hip, threw Dusty a look of “Stop being silly,” but didn’t say anything. “Can I offer you a glass of iced tea or coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

“A cup of java sounds great
, if it wouldn’t be a…,” Dusty started, but Grace waved him off and turned toward the kitchen before he could finish.

He
didn’t feel like sitting, instead deciding to mentally dissect the montage of pictures hanging on a nearby wall. The first frame held a college degree from the University of Texas School of Law, the ornate document proclaiming one Grace Amber Kennedy as having been awarded a Juris Doctorate. The next cluster of images held countless awards and honors issued by the State of Texas and numerous legal associations. Finally, his gaze settled on a small group of personal photographs.

Dusty struggled with the words to describe Gr
ace Kennedy.
Beautiful
seemed like an understatement -
attractive
sounded almost insulting. Any woman equipped with such a disarming smile, petite frame, and healthy skin was desirable, and surely Miss Grace was all of that. Adding proven intelligence and an extensive track record of professional success to the mix elevated her well beyond mere physical descriptions. Silly words like
stunning
and
gorgeous
began entering the male mind. He dismissed the labels as shallow, overused, and cliché.

There was another aspect to the woman – a depth that was difficult to identify.
The answer is in these pictures
, he concluded.
I know it is. I’ve looked at these old photos a dozen times, and I still can’t put my finger on it.

There was a young, smiling Grace with her parents, a cap and gown
identifying the event, then another image of a slightly older girl, a wedding photo taken with a handsome, clean-cut young man. The marriage was soon followed with several pictures of a newborn baby, smiling underneath a billowing, pink hair bow, despite the baldhead.
Amber was her name
, he remembered. The big Texan sighed and shook his head at the tragedy that had befallen what seemed like a storybook existence. Grace’s husband and child had died in an automobile accident nine years ago.

On and on, the wall
memories continued. An older Grace, sophisticated in her formal gown, posing with a clearly prestigious award. Another clipping from
The Dallas Tribune
, proclaiming a milestone in her legal career.

“Durham Weathers,”
interrupted her voice behind him. “Haven’t you studied those old pictures a million times already?”

Smiling, Dusty turned to see her carrying a
lime-green serving tray, complete with two mugs, a matching pot, and small containers of milk and sugar. Grace was the only person who refused to call him by anything other than his formal name, claiming she liked the handle better than Dusty.

She motioned him to the couch while she
set the tray on the table and began filling the cups.

With coffee in hand, she chose the loveseat, studying her guest with an intense gaze over the rim of her mug.

“You’re not being honest with me,” she finally proclaimed. “Something else is troubling you besides the flying. What’s going on, Durham?”

As was
common with many of their conversations, things weren’t exactly following Dusty’s pre-rehearsed plan.

“It’s no big deal
,” he lied. “Like I said, I’ve not seen Mitch in a while, and it’s a long trip. Besides, I’ve had you working on those documents for what – almost a year? It’s high time I got off my lazy duff and finished things up.”

The look on the
lawyer’s face clearly indicated she didn’t buy it, but she decided not to press.
It would be rude to question him
, she reasoned.
Our relationship doesn’t work that way
. Setting down her cup, she rose and announced, “I’ll go back to the office and find the file. You should review the contents to make sure they still represent your wishes.”

Relieved
at being off the hook, Dusty watched as she sauntered to the back of the house where he knew a spare bedroom had been converted into her workspace. “That was close,” he whispered.

Of all the mornings for that man to show up,
thought Grace
. He had to pick the day I was planning on working in the garden.

Standing in front of the mirror, she determined there wasn’t anything she could do about the old jeans and plaid work shirt – he’d notice a wardrobe change in a heartbeat. Hastily pulling a brush through her tresses, she decided that was about the best she could do without being obvious. Mildly frustrated, she strolled to the office, trying to remember where she’d left his file.

The man was a puzzle, and Grace Kennedy wasn’t a fan of unsolved mysteries. He had been the first to befriend her when she moved to Fort Davis. They had quickly developed a causal friendship, his warm smile and western, gentlemanly demeanor welcomed by a lady who had just struck out on a new adventure in life. 

While his friendship was unquestionably genuine, above all he treated her with respect. Unlike the parade of men that came calling back in Dallas, Durham Weathers was interested neither in her money, nor in a quick trip to bed. It was the perfect prescription, exactly what the relocated newcomer had needed – at the time.

After the accident, she’d mourned for months, isolating herself in an empty home, wandering aimlessly, staring out the windows at nothing. Because there
was
nothing. Time eventually healed the pain, but didn’t fill the void she felt inside.

The realization dawned that she had to do something,
anything
to fill the deep, dark hole that had been drilled into her soul by a cruel world. It came gradually, beginning as a soft glow of light, enough energy to clean out his closet. The success of that effort fueled more ambition. Amber’s room was next – a gut wrenching exercise of filling boxes and converting the nursery into a spare bedroom that would probably never see a guest.

After recovering from that exhaustive effort, she resolved to fill her life with a professional challenge big enough to overshadow the gaping chasm in her heart. Her unused degree was the key – unlocking a doorway that she burst through, channeling all of her energies with a determination to dominate.

Dallas was a diverse, target rich environment for an attorney. After emerging onto the legal landscape, it quickly became obvious that corporate law was where the money lay, intellectual property the best game in town. And she played that game hard.

Within two years, her shingle was known by the key players at the Fortune 100 corporations. Another year, and she was turning clients away. Ruthless, tough, strikingly beautiful, and seemingly made of ice, Ms. Kennedy quickly became known as the most eligible bachelorette in town. Some of the power-players viewed her potential conquest as a trophy, others as a method to climb the ladder of success. All of them were out of their league.

As time passed, and the accolades multiplied, Grace became bored and frustrated. Her immersion into law had become stale, her personal life entwined by reputation and polluted by a mundane cast of male characters who all seemed so shallow… unfulfilling.

She’d fallen into a trap. Mired in layers of personal and professional reputation, it had all become a game with rules that were dynamic and not always obvious. She began to feel herself changing to meet the expectations of others. Men who failed to woo her advanced reports of a cold woman, so she allowed the ice queen to emerge in all her scorn and glory. Business associates advertised an unrelenting, uncompromising assailant, so the queen bitch joined her arsenal of personality traits. It was all so dishonest – as false as the façade of a Hollywood movie set.

Without fanfare or ceremony, she made the decision to leave it all behind. The complexity wasn’t fun anymore – she needed something simpler, cleaner – more wholesome. As was typical of her analytical mind, Grace plied into research. After a few weeks, she settled on the western end of the Lone Star State. Her visit to the Barlow property sealed the deal.  

She
soon discovered that the perceived need for the slower pace associated with a small town wasn’t going to be a panacea of wellness. Fortunately, she met Durham early on, and he helped smooth the transition. They had become fast friends, always flirting with a deeper relationship, but that never happened. Some unknown factor seemed to prevent a more meaningful connection.